| Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15hh :: 5 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Wynter :: Royal Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Frostie |
Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.
They bickered, bantered and failed. The Basin unicorns and one new born griffin had slipped away into the night and begun the long journey home. Anger caused a black cloud to hang over the ivory unicorn, her mood smouldering under her furious glare. Weakened, defeated and utterly furious at her loss in the challenge, the doe felt as if she had failed her daughters completely. Not even the fact that they were heading home helped settle her mood, in fact the long journey only infuriated her more. From the battle Arah was bruised, beaten and bloody and as a result constant breaks were required, only the pause in their escaped caused the young mother great worry. Every time they stopped, their captors would have the chance to catch up. Arah pushed herself to continue through the blinding pain, through the quickly forming bond, Wynter's worry could be felt. The young griffin was growing quickly, feathers sprouting on her almost pure white body, she was still not able to fly though. Most of the time Wynter traveled on her bonded's back, doubt increasing with every step that Arah took. For Wynter did not believe that the doe would be able to make it home, Arah knew that she did not have a choice. It was either make it home or die trying.
Thistle Medow rose up around them, Arah looked over her two daughters, struggling to even raise her voice loud enough to be heard. "Thistle Meadow." Silence took ahold of the doe again, her golden eyes looked over the land. The Basin was such a long way away, if she did not make it... "There might come a point where I will not be able to continue." As if on cue, another trickle of blood ran down Arah's cheek. Pausing, the doe looked down upon her two daughter, pride burning through her golden eyes. "If this happens I shall give you my memories, you'll know everything about me and the way home." Tears pooled up in her eyes. "You will not argue, you will take Wynter and run." Arwen would obey, Ash would keep her sister safe. A cough from Arwen reminded her to put one hoof in front of the other. Turning back to the direction of home, Arah pushed herself into movement. Her daughters needed her now, what kind of mother would she be if she failed them again? Arah would keep on fighting until her heart could not pump anymore.
Day and night they traveled, slipping through the meadow and quickly moving past The Threshold. Arah had hoped to bump into another Basin member to entrust her daughters too. But none appeared through the trees, so Arah pushed her daughters forward as Wynter sent encouraging feelings towards her new bonded. Both Wynter and Arah were half starved by the time the new falls came into view, Arah did not let her panic show. It was important that Arwen and Asch remained confident in her. It was going to be okay...they would get through this. Surely the gods did not allow them to escape only to shatter them on the journey. This was all new to her, the Hills had once stood proudly here, yet now? Now it was a shatter of the previous terrain, beautiful lakes and rivers covered the land. The scent of horses also filled Arah's nostrils, for a moment she paused looking over the once hills, wondering if she should head onto the borders and request help...yet...no. No one could be trusted that was not her own family, the directions they gave might also be false. Another trap. So the doe continued on the path she though she knew, hoping that soon another landmark or smell would reach her and assist with her barings.
Wynter sensed Arah's excitement at recognising The Frozen Arch. The griffin raised her head and let loose a cry. For this was nearly home, at the northern reach, before the mountains that made The Basin, was this almost barren land of snow and stiff dirt. She would not be able to feed on the bitter grasses and shrubs, yet the hope of nearly being home fuelled her. "Watch the loose rocks and look out for collapsing boulders." The elements would not take her daughters. "Stay close, do not venture off. The minute you think you know this land it will kill you." The wind picked up in support of her words, Arah smiled as the very light, barely noticeable scent of home reached her nostrils. Wynter spread her wings in the wind, feeling the joy that would one day become flight. Arah guided them all through a network of glaciers, the first time she passed through them was when she had been nothing more than a young idiotic mare. Full of innocent and pathetic views on the world. Arah had been a fool.
Finally in the distance it was there, The Basin. Home, safety. It rose up in the horizon and Arah paused, tears spilling over her cheeks. Here her daughters would be safe. "Ahead my dears. Home." If she fell now, at least Wynter and the twins would make it home. Scampering up her neck, Wynter made it perfectly clear through her stubborn emotions that no such thing would happen. Together they would stay. 'Well I'm not dead yet.' That was all she needed. Legs shaking, blood tailing through her coat, Arah made her way through the rough terrain. The doe knew the path down into The Basin better than she knew her own name, yet still she stumbled, legs weak although her resolve did not weaken. Once she fell, Wynter encouraged her to stand again, Arah looked over her daughters and struggle to rise. She was home and safe, now was not the time to fail her girls. The minute her hooves touched the bottom land of The Basin, Arah felt the tears freeze on her cheeks. Did she have the strength to call for her leaders? "Deimos! Illynx!" Her voice was weak, Wnyter raised her head and added a screech to the doe's cries.
" "
@[Deimos] @[Asch] @[Illynx] (You don't have to post Bunnie, just thought I'd tag you in case ^-^)
It is open but please wait for these guys to post first. Thank you!
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And I ain't afraid to die, I’m afraid of going to hell.
✽ Force and magic permitted. ✽
✽ No fatal or permanent damage. ✽
✽ Please only tag in opening posts. ✽
| Deceased |
| Filly :: Unicorn :: 16 :: 8 Months |
| Frostie |
I'll let you listen to my sweet, sweet lies.
Arwen would always remember the night they had snuck away. It haunted her dreams, and caused her soul to rot in a boiling pot of hate. Every their mother had stopped for a rest, Arwen had been on guard, looking out for the shadows that she knew were coming to get her family. The burns from the brute's dragon had caused the ivory fur on the golden girl's back to burn away; the skin was pink and furious. Yet the young girl did not complain of the pain, instead she kept encouraging herself to keep on walking. Her mother was weak and her sister was injured, Arwen had to be the strong one, the only one she had to help her was the newly hatched griffin. The young griffin, named Wynter by her mother was growing quickly. It's scrawny body now had feathers sprouting, each of them were on her almost pure white their ends tipped in gold. Arwen could see how her mother and griffin were made of each other. Yet Wynter was still not able to fly, this seemed to cause her mother some distress so the youngest daughter kept her mouth closed. Most of the time Wynter traveled on her mother's back, Awren wanted to ask the griffin to walk by itself...surely the extra weight was causing her mother more struggle? But the company of Wynter seemed to help. Again Arwen kept quiet.
The scenes changed again, it grew colder at night and the golden filly wondered how long it would be until they reached The Basin. Their mother dubbed the land 'Thistle meadow.' Looking around, the youngest daughter did her best to take note of the way they had traveled. If she ever needed to find The Basin on her own...well then this journey certainly would come in handy. Their mother's voice caused Arwen to look up intently, why would their mother not be able to continue the journey? They were free, surely she could just keep walking to The Basin. Frowning the young girl watched a line of blood trickle down her mothers face, finally the realisation hit. Their mother was talking about death. "Mother..." A cough from her traitorous lungs made Arah turn away from her and continue to struggle home. "Aschie...she's going to die...and it's all my fault." A sob broke through her lips, the horror at knowing what she had done. Never would the young girl be able to forgive herself. "I can't bring her back either Aschie." Now the filly knew that she did not have the power to give life. All she could do was animate the dead bodies of others, it was not life. The empty containers became her minions.
Day would come with the rising of the sun and fall again just as quickly. Arwen was exhausted, most nights she buried her face into Wynter's side and cried herself to sleep before their mother would wake them after only a few hours of rest. Then the painful struggle to continue in their journey would start again. Arwen had fallen silent and began to refuse to drink whatever milk their mother had to offer. Mostly Arah was too weak to even produce the milk that both twins needed. Asch was badly wounded, so Arwen wanted her sister to have the food. Only once her stomach grumbled and Arwen felt starved would she finally take the milk that was offered. Once they paused looking over a land, Arwen could smell the other horses. Yet their mother just paused looking over the land and then continued on their journey. Arah had grown frail, her usual beauty dimmed. Her body was emaciated, bloodied and broken. It was all the golden daughter's fault. She had chased the rabbit, gotten caught and lured Arah and Asch into the trap. Sometimes while they wondered, Arwen would hear the voices talk to her. They would whisper advice and soothing words, but nothing they said actually made the situation any better. The youngest daughter had as good as killed her mother.
Arwen looked up as Wynter raised her head and let loose a cry. It was a chilly and a most barren land that they had come on to. "It's so cold". Shivers worked their way up and down her golden spotted spine. Looking over the land of snow and stiff dirt, Arwen wondered if this was The Basin that her mother spoke so fondly of. Their would not be able to feed on the bitter grasses and shrubs, she ignored all the pathetic attempts of shrubby. Following her mother's instructions Arwen paid attention to the ground, watching for loose rocks and any collapsing boulders. Often her tiny hooves would trip and stumble over the rocks, another cough racked her body. "Keep going." Whispered encouragement meant for her small family. As Arah smiled, the golden girl allowed a small light go hope spark within her. It was small and could be blown out at any moment. Wynter spread her wings in the wind, Arwen smiled as she looked over at the griffin. They followed her through the maze, their mother steady in her pace and confident of the path that she took. It had to be soon, Araj's confidence and strength was growing, Wynter proved as much. Each time Arah grinned or seemed happier, Arwen would allow a smile of her own.
As her mother looked into the distance, Arwen looked up and followed her gaze. That had to be The Basin, the way her mother looked at the land. Arwen allowed herself to smile. Quickly, her mothers words confirmed the golden girl's thoughts. "Home." Testing the word, to see how it felt on her tongue caused a smile to blossom. It was an amazing word, filled with hope and safely. Something Arwen desired greatly. Giggling softly as Wynter scampered up her mothers neck, Arwen allowed the hope that had sparked within her chest to spread. Legs shaking, blood tailing through her coat, Arah made her way through the rough terrain and Arwen followed closely. Once her mother fell, Arwen rushed forward. "Careful mother!" Arah looked over Arwen and Asch, offing a warm smile and a nod Arwen wanted to see her mother rise again. Not wanting to disappoint, Arah indeed rose and Arwen began to follow her again. When they finally reached the bottom, Arwen burst into tears. The voice was weak, that called for their leaders. Wynter raised her head and added a screech to the doe's cries, Arwen collapsed onto the ground. "Home."
0 words.
"Speech"
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| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Something sinister brewed beyond them, coiled, contorted, distorted through the balms of furtive grips – and he couldn’t see through the murk, the mystery, the enigmas poured over veils. Ignorance frustrated him, pulsed and pervaded through the reticent requiem of his existence, because he pried, he nettled, he scorned and mauled, and still, naught showed or reared its head along the intertwining shadows and baleful moans. Herd members disappeared, gone, there one minute in the clambering of collected munitions, vanished the next, drifting on the despicable wind into some unknown measure of time and space. The calculations scraped and scathed against his Machiavellian convolutions, festering and withering in the treachery, in the trenchant guise, in the burning queries and meticulous bounties, answers unchanging, rippling into incomprehension. He seethed in the caverns, he slithered in the midnight oils, and he searched for something along the slinking entrails, clues hidden in the midst and murk. Who dared to snatch from him? Who dared to abscond from him? Who dared to pass over the wake of their icicle valley, their glacier hold, their menacing, ominous air? What prompted the impulsive actions, the evasive maneuvers, the secretive reign of minatory barbarism? And what did they seek from it – his loathing, his contempt, his licentious creeds driven upon them, over and over again? Did they yearn for his rapier thrust into their chest? Did they yearn to draw their last breath in his deadly presence? Did they seek demise through destruction, eradication and slaughter offered, bestowed, planted into their foolish endeavors? As he pondered, as he lurked, as he twisted his hatred into malleable form, a quietus croon building from his limbs, seeking to attach its dominion to some living fiend, watch it ripple and steal – the cry, the scream, of a familiar creature, a patriot, an ally, flew across the kingdom, calling for his appearance.
He recognized the voice immediately, because she, amongst so many of their gathered cretins, fiends, fools and soldiers, was a loyal comrade, a trustworthy dame. Arah - the ivory maiden who’d helped him drag bodies from the floor of their home, who managed to desecrate minds, plucked back into their threshold. He answered in kind, a pulse, a beat, of steady, statue crescendos, seeking answers, explanations, anarchy reveling in the promise, the touch, the taste, of solutions to the maelstrom twisting along his corridors. The piercing slate of his eyes ghosted across her form, her child’s, as he appeared, and the hatred reawakened, an anointed abhorrence, a haunting abomination, fueled, instigated, reviled by her wounds. Someone, somewhere, would pay for their actions, and he’d delight in the way they bled, they decayed, they lain across the ground, stained, bleached, damaged, beaten and broken. The deep, chiseled lacquer of his voice sprang from the gallows of an impassive face (not hinting at anything but the pure fixation of his licentious convictions – because she carried lacerations that would be unleashed upon another twofold, and he’d remember each one, carefully carve and etch the lesions into the perpetrator’s flesh). “What happened?” Who did this? Then, the quieter assertion she’d require healing, maybe the other demanded for (the GildedBlade, stirred from her chambers) would snag the Mender on her way, as the Reaper examined, procured, and set forth to annihilate.
Illynx the GildedBlade Posts: 413
| Hidden Account atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 13 HP: 67.5 | Buff: ENDURE |
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Kyst :: Common Griffon :: Zapping Jab
Bunnie |
Faintly, it seemed, the wind called her name.
She lifted her head and ears from her grazing alongside the still lake, eyes narrowing as she peers around her for the source of the sound; at first, she doesn’t see anything but the great bronze beast Ulrik has made, and he is still and lifeless, a good sign that there is nothing amiss that she should worry to deeply upon. She almost turns back to her grass when the call of a griffon or eagle strikes her ears, too soon after the wind calling to her to be only coincidence, and it draws her towards the gateway of their land on limbs that flash in the speed of her even lope.
Approaching the pathway and cresting the hills that had obscured her view, she pauses and gapes in horror at the sight that befalls her; against the fresh shoots of spring lies Arah, a sight she has seen once before while fighting the lightning dragon, but this time there is no Lena rushing to her aide, only a white hatchling of a griffon and two children. The Lord Deimos is there, mane still settling about his shoulders in his swift approach and halt, and it takes the woman only a split second to know what to do.
Pivoting back around and out in the Basin, she darts through the vale at a blistering speed, deep enough into its heart that she is of the thought her voice will reach the Time Mender and her students wherever they might be. "Leeeeena! Tangeeeere!" she shouts, her voice commanding and sharp, desperation slightly fringing each syllable, "To the gateway, and make haste!"
Not pausing long enough to know if the healers are coming, but sure that they will do as asked if they can hear her, she gallops back towards the entrance of the Basin, sliding into the gathering of her herd mates and sending dirt flying about her digging hooves, eyes broad and savage as she pants and snorts.
"The Time Mender should be on her way," she says, softly with a dark growl beneath its depth, eyes searching the three who seem to have escaped the clutches of hell itself.
That is dragon damage along that child’s back. Her mouth curls, her heart writhes, and Arah is dying while her children can only watch and suffer from their own wounds.
Their mother is dying, and Illynx finds that she is slowly being consumed by the panic that lies in her memories, the sadness that has broken her own soul.
Where is the Mender? Why can she not just appear?
"Fuckers," she hisses, glaring at the wounds the perforate all of the Impersonator’s frame and the spine of her golden daughter, so much loathing and personal disgust broiling across her face.
[OOC: omg so crappy but she is hereeeeee ]
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Magic/assault allowed to be used on Illynx at any time, in so far as it does not kill or seriously maim her without my permission.
Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
A blade, molten and forged from the credence of strife, summoned the songbird by the baying of blackbirds, by heralded flames and infernal hues. Panic ensued through the blessings of spring, sweeping away the wings of serenity, birdsong and twirling tranquility, leading her down the long alleyways of fir and pine, reaching out to pluck away the lacerations and lesions left upon a comrade. Seized and possessed by the wicked, wild frenzy, the untamed outcry of injustice slung through the thickets, through the murk, through the ice and snow, beast and fairy were suddenly woven into the elements, sharp, incised, amongst doldrums of boughs and ash, taken from the fledges and hedges, begging for salvation in the silent intake of breath, in the haggard warp of their fleeting feet. Emboldened, stretched beyond measures of whimsy or dance, reaching for the longest strides mustered, for the earth to give way to their swift motions, to arrive in time for restoration, renewal, unaware, ignorant of what could be found – but for her to be requested, cited, someone’s soul had been overturned, close, to the sweeping of grim tendrils, to blood, to ichor, to suffering and woe. Her barrel twisted in the way she often dreaded the sliding eels and distorted entrails of vile, villainous pursuits, grasped and took hold, and she attempted to shove them away, swallow the vicious, haunting, poignant bile away, capture the tone, the gravity, of the situation. As the land unfolded before them, as the glaciers rose and the arches unveiled the unsettled party, patriots and leaders lined before fallen brethren, her heart nearly stopped.
A grisly image, ghastly, despondent, mottled and stained her illustrious, refined brow. Recognition, an instant familiarity with the crushed ivory pressed into the lush grass, beat a heavy drum against her ears, and she wasn’t sure whether she gasped, cried, or drew only the silent remnants of shock – merely proceeded in overwhelming, overbearing, hushed aptitude. She’d seen her friends wounded before, had joined them in the hedonistic fervor, had christened and anointed them with the pulse, the beat, of her enchantments so they wouldn’t need to face the next day in the same pain, but she loathed to see them warped, slighted, broken barbs and remnants. She didn’t pry, she didn’t query, she didn’t ask (all that work had been done), and simply stared at her friend as she traced, sketched closer, glancing, encompassing, embracing a creature who never deserved such punishment. Her stare refused to gesture to the wounds, because no matter how deep, how vicious, how inhumane and brutal she promised to absolve all of them (even if she sunk to her knees and could only hymn from a shattered whisper). The nymph lowered her frame towards them both, extended her regal head towards the child, the babe, then beloved, sweet Arah, and pledged sonnets, croons, warbles, harmonies, into their essences. Poured and lacquered from her mouth, sweet nuptials of mellifluous melody, courted and contorted to shroud, to heal, to mend, in great, gilded plumes, a circlet of heaven, a tiara of divinity. Unceasing, eternal, everlasting, the hums, the songs, the ditties, the strains, restored, reinvigorated, pulsed over lacerations and burns, reminded the beautiful hide of what it had once been before such tortures had inflicted its texture, its satin, its lace. And all the while, threatening to poison the rapture, the reverie, were the questions brewing in her mind: Why? Who? How? When? And then, the sanguine wiles clenched into hot knives and the bitter, rancorous touch loomed within her core: would they seek vengeance for such actions?
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
Credit URL
| Deceased |
| Filly :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 8 Months |
| Brit |
| Asch and Arwen |
Of the regrets the filly had, numerous in her minute lifespan, she most deeply regretted that her twin had jumped forth to aid her in her explosion against Tyradon. Had she not, only Asch would have been burned by the dracon flame that so badly ruined her frame. Of the small mercies they'd been granted, one of them was that at least she'd managed to receive the brunt of it. She'd rather be dead at the cow bitch's hooves than have her sister harmed. Teeth grit and temples throb with the pain she refuses to let show on her face. She has failed. Her soul sister has been injured, because of her. In life, she had one job, and it was to keep the nether mender safe. She deserved to burn in the fires of her own magic, for how she had failed her twin. Instead she keeps her teeth clamped against the sounds of agony that wish to wind past her molars to betray her. She doesn't deserve that kind of relief. And she stares down at her hooves, not wanting to see what she hears; her mother stumbling and crashing about, just as dead on her feet as Asch feels. But she is the perfect little soldier, and she clamps her lips shut, tries to make Papa proud. Pain is the body growing stronger. Maybe she will grow strong enough to protect Arwen.
Arwen is a blubbering mess, and Asch cannot help but to snap at her for her childishly wailed words. "It's not your fault! You didn't do it to her." And she grits her teeth against a whimper, grinds them, because she won't be weak. She's had enough of being weak. Of being helpless. She will never be helpless again. And so she ignores the way the cold stings like molten needles against the dragon burn on her back, ignores the desire to cry. As long as she lives, a tear will never fall from her lashes. She will sever her emotions, remove them like a failing body part, and throw it away forever. Hardly heeds Arah's words as they stumble like a ragtag group up the halls of the home she's never seen. They look more ready to knock on death's door than their herd's.
As they arrive, her mother calling weakly for leaders Asch has only met once, she hangs back. Desires to push Arwen forward for the attention of the healer surely coming, but knowing it would alert her twin to the fact she would rather take the tired dredges of healing after her family was patched back together. And she watches, with emerald-flecked gold orbs that are dark and full of self-hatred, as they arrive. Deimos, she remembers, recalls how he had impressed her with his aura, his sense of strength. She envies him for that power. Vows to match him, someday. Her desire to voice her answers, so strong her throat trembles and quakes, but she is but a child. What worth does she hold? And her lips twitch and her teeth flash but she swallows down the scald of unspoken words reluctantly. She is given a distraction in the form of her glorious gilded Lady, her anger tangible like Asch's, something the burnished gold fae can relate to. Yes, her mind howls, sensing a similarly minded individual, let her burn them with us at her side! Asch knows the power of a herd, of a united front. But she vies for her own power, for the stealth of an assassin and the blithe smile of an unassuming maiden, for the power to rip the guts from her enemies while they sleep. She glances towards her twin, and her chest aches. It is for her that she fights, that she desires this power. The throne is not hers to conquer. She is merely the soldier that will lift Arwen upon her shoulders to glory, and she would bask in the shadow so many others despised to be placed in.
Only when a slim hoof is extended does her skin tighten and she cannot hold the roll of her eyes as she sags under a pain she has never experienced before, the strained sound of agony that streams through clenched teeth. Even now, she wishes she were able to shove them back within her mouth, because now she has selfishly drawn attention to herself. Instead she tries to overcome it, limping to her lesser burned twin and placing her cheek upon one pale flank, nudging her forward as the healer comes running. Her eyes burn like the fires she wields, an arrow pinned onto the flesh of the maiden that holds her sister's well-being in her grasp. As much as she despises to trust this stranger, especially with her twin, she has no choice. Instead, her voice is tight as she speaks, nudging her twin forth to be presented to the Mender. "Her first." There is no thread in Asch's being that desires healing. But she must be able to fight if she is to protect her sibling.
Singing graces her harks and slowly, watching her sister's mending flesh like a hawk, Asch begins to relax. Everything hurts, but she refuses to cry. She turns weathered eyes to the healer, wary, distrustful. But remains still for whatever it is she wishes to accomplish. And with ease, she falls into her place, silent as the dead her sister rules over. Similarly at her disposal, her command. She stills, and strives to become stone. To not feel.
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Everyone beat me to it! Haha
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| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 9 :: Birdsong Buff: NOVICE |
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Ragnar :: Plain Boggart :: Suffocate
Nevada |
04-21-2014, 06:55 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-21-2014, 08:10 AM by Crash Course.)
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Crash Course
Even in springtide the bitter; Siberian chill of the northern realm lays as a sleeping beast, prominent in the umber of the night, teeth gleaming against the onyx and ivory dance of his hide, and though it stings and burns as pyre against his meager flesh it is welcomed with opened grasps for he is home and no longer shall he leave it for the endeavors of the world outside, for the taste of iron upon his tongue, for the almost metallic clang of bodies against avian filth and muddied, cruor mixed lineage, to ruin, to pillage and plunder the soiled mutations from the most pure of species, to lay waste to future generations of damnation upon the world of Loorien and bless them in the eternal goodwill of the only gods to be seen around these, anarchy ruled realms.
Unicorns.
A meandering slap of obsidian tresses against his hocks, beneath a milk laden moon and a dressing of icy stars in all their benevolent glorifications the incubus prowled— among melted snow and crushed needles, fir, hunger driven, a feast for the days to come in which more honor shall be brought upon them, the worthy, the righteous, and it is only when his nostrils quiver at the salient delicacy of blackberries that he pauses, roseate lips brushing forth to purloin one from the only home it had known all its life when the cries meet the horizon, haste speaks the urgent song of a Lady, and startled the brute pulls back, pausing for the most minuscule of seconds to listen with raised, flickering harks, before he embarks upon a rapid pace towards the source of the noises (is that someone singing? At this dreaded, freeze ridden hour?).
Flurries weave about his twirling hooves, lodge within the loping speed of his stride, within the tendrils of his mane, along the side of his sweltering sinew and form rivulets along his hide, sweat causing the muscles beneath to shiver and tremble in the severe temperatures of twilight, flashing cerulean spheres in the light of the Moon above and there, at the entrance of their great land, a trio of figurines and one upon the ground, ivory, crumbled and demolished, ruined, a dual couple of smaller frames that must be mere foals, a familiar tinge of salt and smoke settling in his lungs as ash, cruor and the fusible taste of battle, but it is the saccharine pinch of a aroma that causes the breath in his ship to billow out in a steam of humid air, blown away by the breeze, floating as a boat upon the salty brine.
A glint of gold, of aureate, another scent rising and tugging at his bosom, one of a Princess lost among the caverns, one whom had the odor of milk still clinging to her flesh, a memory, a shard, a dagger with the hilt towards his hand— that was why she had smelt familiar, and the horror of the realization is no match to the relief and anxieties that well within him now, the panic, the despair, the distress that wishes to enwrap and choke him as the tide, fright, yearning, infatuation, and as he begins again and canters down the slope towards the gathered and arrives in a wave of snow his sides swell with the ache of his heart, dome twisting to gaze down upon a doe with a fresh scar trailing betwixt her withers, to a young childe to whom he knows not's name, to a battered girl with a coat of caramel and cocoa, terracotta, beaten, torn, and the rumbling snarl that passes from his gritted teeth is one of a wild wolf more then a man, ire and possessive fury surging within the baritone of a voice that grates past his lips now— "Arah," rapture, relish in her presence, he's so sorry, he's so sorry but he doesn't have time for idle apologies because there are bones to be crushed and cruor to be smeared and drank as wine, a sanguine sunset to be painted in the claret of those whom would harm her or her— oh, it was a bitter taste upon his tongue, but he would not blame her, for he has been gone centuries and eons and let this happen to her—babes. He will see whomever dared to do such vile things strewn for the beasts on the ground, rage, he shall annihilate, exterminate, he shall obliterate and maim them as they have done to she, eradicate each lineage, he shall watch them suffer and he will begin with the babes, the elders, the young and foolish, they will pay dearly for the crimes in which they have committed, and he will see to it.
"What vile mongrel did this to you? To your babe— babes?" And then, swinging his scythe towards the one whom he presumes to be the Reaper Déodat had spoken of, Deimos; oh, he had heard his name from the Empress Psyche before, bloodlust boiling as flame within his veins, "How may I lend aid?"
In what way did he wish for him to skin them? He could start with the skull..
But from the hind pillars up, stomach to spine, withers to the latch of the throat, ripped harks and raw muscle lain barren to the harsh oxygen of the world, seemed so much more fun.
They would PAY the fine of their crimes in their own CRUOR.
And he would bathe in the reverence and satisfaction of their dead corpses.
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† Please tag me in all posts.
| Outcast atk: 7 | def: 10.5 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15hh :: 5 HP: 65 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Wynter :: Royal Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Frostie |
Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light. They fell as light as rain, slowly and delicately; painting the pure white snow with a bright, rich crimson colour. Each drop would roll down her cheeks, as gentle as a tear before staining the perfect snow around her. Desperation kept it’s icy grip, black coils snaking through the pounding and panicked beat of a bird. In the distance, salvation began to take form, at first features were not distinguishable. Then death in a mortal from presented himself before her, his strong and undefeated body promised the safety she so desperately desired. In an instant it all became too much, for the knowledge that the ordeal was over caused a great wave of relief to wash over her body. Loosing strength, the great crowned head fell and a sob rattled through her body. The sound was not alive, it sounded like a thousand broken pieces falling to the floor only to shatter further. The display of weakness was in someways shameful, yet it could not be helped. After all, the ivory soul was only alive. The piercing blue gaze forced her crowned head to rise. "I'm so sorry Lord Deimos." For the knowledge that she had failed them all burned deep within her core, it threatened to consume her completely. At least she had not returned without information, now The Basin would be prepared.
Wynter spread her wings and called out to the heavens, the pure white griffin still deeply concerned for the general health of her bonded. The doe opened her mouth to begin sharing her knowledge, only another figure in the distance is clearly beginning to make haste to join them. "Illynx." A soft whisper and a warm smile as the golden coated Lady presented herself as well. A healer? Golden orbs look over both of her daughter's battered bodies...that dragon. With the promise of a healer coming to attend to the only beings that kept her alive, Arah began her tale. "The Regime." A new name, one that was spat out to her beloved leaders with such venom, the doe half expected them to recoil. "Their leader, a mare of white skulls took Arwen and Asch. I had to follow." The memory still brought horrors at night, horrors that ruined her once so sweet dreams. "I challenged, but it was not enough." Once again her elegant crowned head fell agin, the shame burning through her very being. "I failed." Never would she forgive herself. The tears mixed with the blood as Lena rushed over, the new Time Mender seemed frozen with shock for a moment. Then Asch is pushing Arwen forward, demanding that she be healed first, a sad smile crosses Arah lips as the healer complies.
Her own skin began to knit back together, the burns healed and the pain finally eased away. No amount of magic could return her psychical strength, nor quench her thrust for revenge. "There is not many of them yet, but one day they will want a herd land. One day they may come seeking ours." They need more. Exhausted, her legs shook as the doe forced herself to rise once again, standing at her full height. "The Ancient Rotunda rests between Thistle Meadow and the Dead lands. In this new place they reside." Her eyes rose and looked over Deimos, maybe he would understand. This new feeling boiled within her, something she had never felt before. Revenge. "I want them dead. I want to..." What? Sucking a a shaky breath it was not for Arah to continue. She did not know how to make threats or return pain, this was not her forte. Falling silent as another figure approached, Arah smiled at the black and white form that made Crash Course. It was a pathetic smile, yet all the warmth she could muster at the very moment. "Crash." He had been there the first time she had fallen, now he was here for her once again. "I do not know any battle strategies, but I think it would be best to crush the babe while it still sleeps in the crib." Quick, brutal and utterly destructive. The doe believed it was best to attack now, before they gained more strength, the courage to attack a herd land. "If we actually go to war of course is up to you."
Looking over Arwen and Asch, the mother knew that getting revenge on this...Regime was not optional for her personally. The Basin may decide to bide their time or not return the attack, Arah however would find a way to see them ruined. It would be a difficult task to do alone, but the drive and desire to obliterate and slaughter every last Regime member was so intense, the ivory mare could not ignore it.
One day Blaosc.
One day it'll be your turn.
" "
Feel Free to skip Arwen.
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And I ain't afraid to die, I’m afraid of going to hell.
✽ Force and magic permitted. ✽
✽ No fatal or permanent damage. ✽
✽ Please only tag in opening posts. ✽
| Deceased atk: 7.0 | def: 12 | dam: 6.5 |
| Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1 :: 7 HP: 72.5 | Buff: NUMB |
| Heather |
Insurrection lanced and laced upon his own; a crushing, gnarling aperture gnawed at his contemptuous soul, and he granted the hushed, solidified promise of a patriot doomed to vengeance. Immoral and iniquitous, the fuel layered upon the fire bolstered the consuming inferno of his loathing, incited, kindled, rankled the height of its conflagration until he could feel it nestle, croon, murmur, bark in his veins, screech and scream within his chest. It clawed and scraped, longed and yearned for ripped sinew, for peeled-away bones bleached by the wayward sun, for muscles torn and flayed, for heads separated from their infernal carcasses, left to wither, decay, beneath the lacquer of their abhorrence. Demolition, extermination, slaughter, massacres, echoed vicious, virile croons across his undulating core, the sinner’s great gift heightened in the scrawl of seditious splendor, ominous obliteration. They, this Regime, dared to efface and puncture the livelihood of his members, and he wouldn’t rest until he watched their lives turned and plucked, punctured and pierced, corrupted and devoured by the rise of their enmity, the score of their antipathy, their Tartarean guile and demonic art. The seething trace of his meticulous, malevolent might, the plundering, the pillaging, of carnivore puissance, potent, forbidding rampancy, the den of recherché and relentless, simmering, ferocity – they’d crossed the wrong kingdom. They’d delivered the first blow, the first casualty, slunk and crawled through the innards of his followers and left them to bleed, to die, to become untamed sepulchers – but he’d enact so much more. Reticent rapier unsheathed and eager, possessed disdain, finessed horror, terror, sinister, chilling, formidable rancor, ready to polish quietus, demise, unholy, primitive acrimony dripping down the back of his throat. Only the bestial clamor of his deep, devil vocals surged to provide the Impersonator, her children, the smallest of comforts (his disappointment would never settle upon her), a tranquil, hedonistic fury grinding into the trace of his hollowed void. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He knew the sting of shame, had felt it burn in his blackened heart when he failed his own escape from the clutches of the Edge, but the stirring of his Machiavellian mind grasped and gripped each parcel of information she offered; a stealthy mind never abandoned even in the bludgeoning of herself and her babes.
The Reaper King absconded the whims, the capricious assaults, and took to remembering every single particle: The Regime, a mare of skulls, the Ancient Rotunda, waiting and lurking for herd lands, for victims. The demonic fiend realized full well that others needed to be informed, for the herd to realize dangers lurking beyond those of wraiths and idiots, that inept craniums bounced through shadows and trapped mothers beneath their avaricious designs, for sleuths to be collecting details and intelligence along the void of the opposition’s entrails, for soldiers to be ready for combat at a singular notice. He noted, with a vague circumstance, the healer and her song, and the soldier following, promising aid, and addressed the latter. The penetrating bite of his stare slid to the fellow beast, resolute, chilling, sharpened and keen, wanton for the opportunity to lay another city to dust. “Come with me. We will tell the herd.” A nod was given to Arah, and then he disappeared into the layers of darkness and ash, coiling and sowing the embers of an anarchy doomed to topple.
Illynx the GildedBlade Posts: 413
| Hidden Account atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 3 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 13 HP: 67.5 | Buff: ENDURE |
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Kyst :: Common Griffon :: Zapping Jab
Bunnie |
Illynx, beckons the fallen doe in the grasses, and kindly the Lady turns her face to the pale Impersonator, her heart writhing in disgust against whoever it is that has done this to her. The mentioning of her name draws another to the surface, one unfamiliar to her ears, but already more hideous than any she has heard before. The Regime, some brigand group, and as the spy verbalizes the physical attributes of their captor, a growling, savage sound breaks from the lips of the golden queen.
"Confutatis," she half barks, half spits; if the Lady had hackles to raise they would be perfectly erect along her spine. Instead, her ears are flat as they have ever been on her head, dark nostrils curved and draconic as her golden eyes darken with a hatred not new to her tongue. "No, Arah, I failed you," she says, dropping her nose closer to the mare and looking at her through her loathing of self and stupid equine bitch, "she’s come rattling bones against the stone before. I gave her not enough heed."
"Forgive me, darling," she asks as the Healer arrives, her dulcet voice drifting over the children first and then serenading the wounds upon Arah. The mare has more information, however, and Illynx drinks in each word eagerly, remembering precisely where this Rotunda is; she and Arah had helped clear a stream there of some small, plague fish. The arrival of the painted stallion draws her eyes away for but a moment, his words reassuring that she is not alone in her lust for blood to repay this dark deed.
Gods help you, Regime.
Confutatis…
She watches Deimos gather the soldier to him, to go inform the rest of the herd of events, nodding a farewell to him to let him know she will be working on other plans of action here and elsewhere; if he needs her, he can send one of their kin to fetch her. For now, she has other things in mind, friends made a season ago who she had been so unkind as to thank as of yet. Perhaps they will be interested in Skull Bitch, too.
And then, an even stranger thought… what would Mirage’s band of peacekeepers think of all this?
"No war, yet," she smiles, sinister and sweet, her golden gaze gleaming with hatred, her favorite cloak, "let’s return them a few heads, first…only heads, of course." Turning her face to Lena, surely worn from her song weaving, she offers a question.
"Will you go with me to the Hidden Falls when you are rested?" she asks, already having a third party member in mind, who she mentions after glancing to all involved, "I believe we will bring Roland along, if you agree to come. It’s time to make this Regime a common enemy, so to speak."
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Magic/assault allowed to be used on Illynx at any time, in so far as it does not kill or seriously maim her without my permission.
Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
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Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
She closed her eyes against the measures of wrath, felt them boil, bubble, and erupt from the voices cloistered around them. Nestled deep into the rhythm of sages and ambience was the telltale precision of malice, malevolence, and contempt. She knew their feelings, their sentiments, the violent, villainous laces, the loathing, avaricious gleams, and detested, deep within her soul, in her heart, that these foals, that this gentle dame, had to been burned and scored by noxious, sinister touches. As she sang, as she gleamed, as she strove to undo the damage invoked by wretched, wicked scoundrels, visions bled into her mind; fiendish raptures, undone by the fury of her herd, nefarious reveries, corrupted and destroyed by the ferocity of her brethren. The Mender attempted to swallow down the bile that threatened to gloss over her throat, poured and lacquered down her larynx, the glint of hushed wrath, feral indignation, crossing down the pathways of her divine essence. But Arah told her story, whittled and carved away the bones, the edges, of their torture, of their ruin, of their capture, and the scenes grew worse, taut and potent, strengthened vehemence and fortitude for her wayward companions, torn and bloodshed for no conceivable reason. Why would the world seek to strike down kind babes and nurturing dames, figures who’d never sculpted a licentious statue, never waxed a broken hallelujah, never enacted or irked strife? How far did the damned draw their swords and stones, attacking innocence and morality through the ample threads of inhumane vitriol? What did they seek beyond throngs and thrones of lunacy? To what end, to what purpose? What did they hope to achieve? And through it all – why had Arah and her daughters been chosen to assault? How many more would be unraveled, tormented, distorted before dissolution and oblivion were cast into their damned shades? Was sanctuary, serenity, and refuge a delusion, safety laying nowhere but the minds of the ignorant?
The sylph finished, ended her symphony, drawing her mouth to close before she grew hoarse and incapable, opened her eyes and continued listening to the stewing whims of her herd. Saddened and disjointed, the maiden hung her head before the babes, the cherubs, the ivory angel, and pondered the next steps, the recourses, the chains inevitably rattled and partaken. Would she take part in unwinding the havoc – she’d done so before, so many times over, deep in the heart of the Edge’s mist, or along the icy pathways of the Steppe, bled and bled and bled for the life of her cadre – and Illynx delivered the answer thereafter. She offered a silent nod in response and naught more, ghostly tracings of finality reaching over the eaves of violence; she wouldn’t be asked to participate in slaughter, but wind the hands of outreach and information, agents provocateur in a hazardous dance. The world would twist and distort again, and for their survival, for their persistence, she’d lend more alms to the destruction of a nation breathing down their necks.
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
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